


Go Fish

by cave_leporem



Category: Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Alcohol is a terrible enabler, Explicit Language, M/M, Multi, Vale has a plan, and he will use drink flirting and obvious manipulation to realise that plan, i'm (not) sorry, no out and out porn (I am sorry), so going to hell for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 07:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2260788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cave_leporem/pseuds/cave_leporem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silverstone happened. And then the Honda-Yamaha after party happened. </p>
<p>'Valentino wakes up the quickest of the four of them; he opens his eyes and takes in the sight. Jorge is frowning, Marc pouting sleepily and Dani panicking. The memories are beginning to return.</p>
<p>He bursts out laughing.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go Fish

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fourth file on my hard drive to be labelled with a variation of, 'I'm going to Hell.' I should probably join up the dots...
> 
> Sorry for lack of porn. I struggle writing 'normal', two person stuff; I have had this all but finished on my laptop for two days now, wishing I could write a foursome-
> 
> -that is not something I ever expected to say-
> 
> -before biting the bullet and posting it as is.
> 
> This is a work of fiction, my God it is a work of fiction, and no offence is meant to the people mentioned. 
> 
> (And it figures; I go to Silverstone, and *this* is the bunny my mind takes away from that weekend. Typical.)
> 
> Enjoi.(.?)

_Monday morning, eight o’clock, Hotel room 109._

Dani blinks blearily as he wakes up, staring at the ceiling of his hotel room. His head hurts. Considering the amount he remembers drinking last night, never mind what he’s forgotten, this isn’t a surprise.

His left arm is numb, crushed under another warm, still sleeping body. He doesn’t look, but he smiles. Even blackout drunk, Marc made it back with him. Dani twists to curl around his lover, before realising he can’t feel his right arm either, for apparently the same reason.

Panic courses down his spine like lightening. Fearfully, he glances down his body to see a familiar, unwelcome head tucked against his shoulder, one tanned leg thrown over his.

It is not possible to panic more, not even when he notices the second Yamaha rider spooning behind Jorge Lorenzo.

At this point, he checks it is actually Marc cuddling him on the left side, sighing in relief on seeing the dark, ruffled hair of his team mate.

It occurs to him that during his glances, he did not spot one stitch of clothing between them.

Dani bolts upright. He regrets it immediately as the movement starts a chain reaction, Jorge swearing as he’s knocked aside and Marc grumbling at the loss of his pillow.

Valentino wakes up the quickest of the four of them; he opens his eyes and takes in the sight. Jorge is frowning, Marc pouting sleepily and Dani panicking. The memories are beginning to return.

He bursts out laughing.

_Sunday afternoon (seventeen hours earlier)_

“Jorge isn’t talking to me again.”

Dani snorts as he checks the immediate area. They’ve stopped in a little alcove set into the side of an infrequently used corridor, but he still checks. Seeing nobody around, he leans up and gives Marc a quick kiss. The younger man hums in appreciation, resting their foreheads together for a few seconds after the gentle pressure. “Jorge is prone to being a drama queen,” Dani murmurs to his lover, “And you gave him a hefty shunt out there today; I caught the replay after the race. Speaking of which, well done, Marc!” Dani smiles; they share another sweet, short kiss.

“I wasn’t going to let him beat me, was I?” Marc grins mischievously. “We’ve got to keep a Honda lockout going; it’s not going to be a Marquez annihilation since you got me in Brno.”

“Let the side down a bit today, though,” Dani lowers his eyes. “I never got anywhere near you or Jorge.”

“You gave Vale a run for it. He told me-”

“-to tell me ‘thanks for the race’? Again?” Dani gives his team mate a worried look. “Do you think he knows about us? He told you that after Mugello and Indy, too.”

Marc tries to be casual about it. “It’s probably nothing,” he says breezily. “He’s just taking up all the nice in the Yamaha garage this season because Jorge keeps being a bastard.”

Dani sympathises with their compatriot more than his lover does, though. “If I’d had the starting problems he had earlier this year, I’d be a bastard to the guy who kept beating me too. Especially if the last race was at one of my best tracks.”

Marc sticks out his tongue. “Don’t hate me because I’m talented, Dani!”

“I won at Brno, remember?” Dani grins wryly. “The only track I was gutted at was Germany.” He shakes his head at Marc’s slightly worried look. “I _was_ happy for you; stop looking so worried.”

Marc opens his mouth, but Dani continues, cutting in before he can get a word out. “So I can hate you for any other reason I might choose?” His smile turns sly.

Marc snaps into movement before his lover can react; he reels Dani in so the shorter man’s back is resting against his chest. He laughs in Dani’s ear, feeling his team mate struggle against him. “You don’t hate me for any reason,” he bites gently at Dani’s earlobe. Dani stops fighting to get away, leaning back into him. “Admit it, Dani,” Marc coaxes his lover with languid kisses on his jawline and neck, “You’d never hate me, could you?”

Dani cranes his neck to meet Marc’s lips with his own. “You know exactly what I’ll say to that,” he says quietly, breathing out the words.

One corner of Marc’s mouth quirks up. “Would that reply be honest, or sarcastic?”

Dani nips his chin in reprimand. “You know either way.”

“Mmm.” Marc nuzzles into the juncture of his neck and collarbone. “I do.”

Dani covers Marc’s hands with his own, where they were resting on his hips. “Smooth, but not quite smooth enough, Marquez. Stop distracting me. Do you think Vale knows about us?”

Marc sighs against his neck. “Do we mind if he does?”

Dani seriously thinks about it, not answering for a few minutes. Marc patiently waits him out, no pressure on his team mate. He hugs Dani tighter against him, trying to reassure the older man that the question was pure curiosity; he doesn’t mind what conclusion Dani comes to.

“No,” Dani muses aloud. “We don’t, if he doesn’t spread the information carelessly.” He has to add the qualification; evidence might suggest Vale’s known or guessed the truth since June and kept silent about it, but that’s no guarantee he would in the future.

Marc makes another noise of agreement against his skin. “Want to talk to him about it? We’re going out tonight to celebrate- me, him, Jorge, you. Some of the others, if they want to join in.”

“Me?” Dani fails to hide his amusement at the presumption. “When did I agree to this?”

“You didn’t.” Dani feels the smile in the kiss pressed to his pulse. “I’m assuming. I can start begging, if you’d like.”

Dani laughs. “Oh, I’d like,” he admits shamelessly, since it’s just the two of them in this little alcove, “But it’s not necessary. When and where are we meeting?”

“Eight, in the hotel bar,” Marc says. “We’re feeling lazy tonight, and there won’t be many people around. And _we_ ,” he strokes Dani’s hipbones, dipping his thumbs under the waist of his jeans, “Have three and a half hours ‘til we need to be there. I’ve debriefed with the team; I’ve congratulated my brother and I have nothing else to do for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Basically, you’re bored,” Dani squeezes Marc’s wrists lightly. “Are you hinting that you want me to entertain you?”

“Hinting, implying, outright stating. What room are you in again?”

“Bold, Marquez.” Dani laughs huskily and tilts his head back to rest on Marc’s shoulder.

“Eager, Pedrosa.” Marc pushes his hips forward, the barest suggestion of what he considers appropriate entertainment.

Dani’s laughter dies in his throat. “…Room 109. This way.” He grabs his team mate’s arm and starts walking.

Marc makes him feel like a teenager again sometimes, but Dani wouldn’t give it up for the world.

_Sunday evening (two hours later)_

Jorge paces across the room, five steps forward, turn, five steps back, repeat. It’s driving Valentino up the wall watching him. “Why did I agree to this? I don’t like the little bastard at the moment, remember?”

The Italian rolls his eyes, lounging back on the bed. “Have you ever?”

Jorge pauses, lips curling into a brief smirk. “Once. Phillip Island last year; beautiful race. Cocky little shit.” He resumes his pacing.

Vale’s had enough. As Jorge reaches the wall again, he leaps up and boxes the Majorcan against the plaster, pinning him with hips and hands. Predictably, Jorge bucks, trying to get free. Valentino grits his teeth and holds on until the futile attempt has ceased. He hopes to distract his team mate, or at least use up some of the excess energy with activities more pleasurable than _walking_.

Jorge catches on, and peers suspiciously over his shoulder at the grinning Italian. “I’m _really_ not in the mood today,” he warns his on-and-off lover. Strictly speaking, they’re barely friends. Amicable, yes, but neither one has forgiven the other for their perceived faults that brought about the catastrophe that was their first stint as team mates.

This time, they like to think they’re (older and) wiser, and get the tension out of the way by fucking rather than arguing. Or both, in sequence or at the same time; neither one really cares. They’re being mature about it. Explicit, even.

But right now, Jorge doesn’t want sex. He doesn’t even want an argument. He wants a good bitch, a sympathetic ear, and an excuse to hide in his room tonight rather than make merry with the bastard ruining his hopes of future titles. “Don’t push me,” he adds, when his team mate shows no signs of backing off.

Valentino bites at the back of his neck. “Still gives me lots of options,” he mutters. “Pull you down instead?”

“Vale-” Jorge catches him off-guard by going suddenly limp in his hold, then shoving back off the wall with all of his strength. The Italian falls backwards, sprawling on the floor, rubbing his elbow and glaring when Jorge turns to face him.

Vale stops nursing the probable bruise and raises the injured arm, offering a hand to his team mate. Jorge remains unimpressed.

“Now, why would I take that,” he asks rhetorically, “When I know what you plan to do with it?”

The older man doesn’t even try _innocent_ , he goes for a truly ridiculous _come hither_ instead. The thing is, Jorge knows Vale can do smouldering, seductive looks when he’s in the mood. He knows the Italian can move his body and control his facial expressions to exude carnal indecency from every pore when he wants to.

Apparently, Vale knows better than to try when Jorge’s refusing to play ball. Shame; he could have used the laugh right now. His team mate’s expression, all exaggerated pout and batting eyelashes, is too much a parody to be funny; he can’t laugh at somebody when the person in question is _howling_ on the inside.

Vale’s voice though, Italian accent murmuring half-decent Spanish in a tone normally only spoken in the dark of the night, slips into his ears like liquid sin.

“Join me,” Vale murmurs, “And I’ll wear you out so that you can go to bar, have couple of drinks, then plead exhaustion and not risk being caught in lie.”

Vale knows _exactly_ what he’s doing. Jorge’s competitive streak rises like the high tide. He sinks to his knees, then crawls over to his team mate and straddles him, sitting astride the older man’s hips.

Vale’s hard already. Jorge grinds down, halfway there himself.

The Italian smirks up at him and pushes back. His pupils are blown, his eyes full of triumph. Jorge leans down until they’re nose-to-nose, and bites at the older man’s lips. “Ask me nicely,” Jorge whispers, “And I’ll wear you out so you can’t even make it to the bar.”

Vale shifts and rolls them over, coming to rest between Jorge’s splayed legs. “When,” he pants, as Jorge plants his feet for leverage and rocks _up_ , “I ever asked you for anything?”

Jorge presses a bruising kiss to that laughing mouth. “Beg me, then.” He’s completely hard now; he can’t count giving in to his team mate’s _persuasion_ as a loss.

“Make me,” Vale bites out between their near-painful exchanges.

Jorge can’t resist one last verbal tease. “Make me, _please_ ,” he mutters, before kissing the Italian again.

_Sunday night, quarter past eight, hotel bar._

Dani checks his watch, then Marc’s, then the clock on the wall. They all concur.

“They’re late,” he concludes sourly. He frowns at his lover. “If you wanted to secretly ask me out, you did a crappy job of it.”

“I wouldn’t need secrecy; you’re wrapped around my little finger, and you know it,” Marc folds his arms and resists the urge to pout. “I’m sure they’ll be here soon. You said you wanted to come, anyway.”

Dani knows they’re alone in the bar, save for the staff. So when he’s handed not one, but a choice of straight-up lines like that-

“Was that your _little_ finger?”

“ _Dani_!” Marc hisses, half delighted and entirely shocked. He switches his gaze between the, if empty, still _public_ bar and his team mate’s smug grin, _really_ wanting to kiss it off his face. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“God help me, neither can I,” a third voice cuts in.

Dani sits bolt upright on his stool. Marc freezes, midway in the act of leaning in.

Vale snorts, and shoves Jorge on to a seat at the bar. “Let me guess,” he waves down a bartender who looks a bit too busy to not be eavesdropping. “You need a drink.”

“I need a bar’s worth of alcohol to get those words out of my head again,” Jorge moans, resting his head on the bar top.

“Jorge.” Dani’s voice is low, urgent. “I know we haven’t exactly got on in the past, but-”

Jorge reaches out blindly and hits his shoulder. “You’re fucking obvious, Pedrosa. I might not have liked you, but I haven’t said anything before, I’m not going to in the future.” He mutters the last bit into the wood, barely audible. “I thought you were more subtle than that, though. God, I wish you had been.”

Dani eyes up the other Yamaha rider, who looks similarly unsurprised. Vale shrugs. Dani raises an eyebrow. Vale cocks his head ever so slightly in the Majorcan’s direction. Dani’s eyebrow reaches his hairline, and he blinks. Vale smirks. Dani goes pale, then nods. Vale nods back, smiling.

Jorge misses the byplay entirely, nursing his first drink. Marc is completely lost.

“What,” he points at the both of them, “Is that?”

Vale winks at him. “What’s what?” He claps the youngest Spaniard on the shoulder. “Aren’t we celebrating you tonight?”

“Is anybody else coming?” Dani asks, wondering if the Yamaha duo has planned any more extensively than his lover had. He’s reeling slightly from what Vale has just revealed to him, their long-standing friendship letting them read each other’s expressions while leaving the rest of the room clueless.

_You both know?_

**_How?_ **

_Similar situation. Recognised the signs._

_… Holy shit, really?_

_I know._

_Jorge? Seriously? Shit, we **are** in the same boat._

_Yup. Great, isn’t it?_

“None confirmed,” Vale replies, ordering Jorge another drink and his own first beverage. He puts it on the Majorcan’s tab.

“Great!” Marc says brightly, in time with Dani’s grimace and Jorge’s groan. “Oh, come on!” He turns to the Majorcan, frowning. “You can’t be upset with that touch, right? You would have done exactly the same thing!”

“It’s not the _touch_ I don’t like,” Jorge mutters, but he’s spoken over by the other Catalonian.

“He _has_ ,” Dani’s unable to help making the snide comment, bitter experience talking.

That is _not_ on. Jorge shoves a drink in front of the shorter man. “Least I didn’t try to apologise and be nice about it,” he says, voice hardening, “And you’re no saint, Pedrosa.”

Dani proves him right by taking the drink and downing most of it. “This was a terrible idea, wasn’t it?” He finally admits.

Jorge snorts.

“So we’re all bastards on track,” Marc injects as much brightness into his voice as possible. “Doesn’t mean we can’t be friends off of it!”

“Or more?” Vale pipes up, smirking at the Honda team mates. He’s been content to watch the sparks until now, but that comment _screamed_ for his input.

Adorably, Marc blushes. “You _do_ know, then? Even before tonight?”

The Italian enjoys every second of Marc’s squirming. “Like Jorge said, you _are_ slightly obvious, if you know what to look for.”

“And you do?” Marc artlessly asks, before doing a double take at how close the Yamaha team mates were to each other.

Dani face palms, never mind he didn’t know either until mere minutes ago.

Jorge sits up, eyes on his team mate. “Vale, don’t-”

“We do,” Vale states with a beaming grin.

Marc bounces on his feet. “This is a double date!” He says excitedly. “This is _awesome_! Is there anybody else you know about? When did you work out Dani and me? How long have you two been together?”

Vale puts an arm over Marc’s shoulders and guides him onto the adjacent bar stool. They start chatting happily, much to the other two’s disgust.

Jorge is deeply unimpressed by this turn of events. He tilts his head over at the youngest man present. “ _How_ do you put up with him?” He asks, voice full of wonder.

Dani wonders himself, sometimes. He shrugs helplessly under the Majorcan’s stare. “At times like this? No idea.”

They drink in moody silence until it’s broken by Marc laughing loudly. On inspection, Vale is gesturing something outrageous that even Dani can’t work out.

He nudges Jorge in the ribs. “I could ask you the same question,” he points out.

“We’re not in love,” Jorge replies immediately, with the perfect timing needed to make Dani inhale half of his drink. He rolls his eyes and thumps the coughing rider on the back.

“Love?” Dani splutters, voice high. “Who said- _love_?!”

“Fucking obvious, Pedrosa,” Jorge repeats his words from earlier. He concedes a little bit to his compatriot’s panic. “If you know what to look for.”

“You alright?” Marc suddenly inserts himself between them, gaze full of concern for his lover. Jorge wonders how Dani thought he was hiding _anything_ with how quickly he softens under that gaze.

“Fine,” Dani clears the last of the alcohol from his lungs. “You?” He quickly tries to deflect any further inquiries.

Marc grins. It’s a devious grin. “It occurred to us,” and his use of the pronoun can only include the similarly grinning Italian ordering what looks like a paddock’s amount of shots from a very tolerant barman, “That this is a terrible double date, with you two just sitting here.”

“Actually,” Jorge tries to stand up; a hand on his shoulder puts paid to the attempt. “I was thinking of heading back to my room?” He glares at the owner of the hand.

Vale winks at him. “You aren’t so tired,” he places an overflowing shot glass into Jorge’s hand. “I know.”

Dani bites his lip, trying to hold back laughter at Jorge’s look of _horror_. “And you thought _I_ was unsubtle,” he needles the man.

Jorge accepts defeat, and knocks back the drink. “It’s weird,” he explains, grimacing at the taste, “Having it referenced so blatantly after keeping it a secret. You aren’t finding this weird?”

Dani knocks back his own shot, in his hand courtesy of a grinning Marquez. “It’s Marc,” he says matter-of-factly, “Very little surprises me anymore.”

Marc can’t decide if he’s offended, or flattered.

Jorge picks on his new target, his original target. “Seriously. I don’t really like you. I’ve never really liked your lover. Hell,” he glances at the Italian standing beside them, watching the conversation like it’s his personal entertainment, “I’ve never really liked _my_ lover. But we’re all sitting here sharing secrets like teenaged girls and trusting a careless word won’t ruin all of our careers? _In what way is this not weird?_ ”

Dani steps back as Marc and Jorge get into a spirited debate over modern attitudes and ‘ _what do you mean, you don’t like me? It was only a little touch!_ ’. Vale grins crookedly as he steps up beside the shorter man.

“You know what this mean,” the Yamaha rider says, completely unhelpful without further elaboration.

“Enlighten me,” Dani sighs, praying they won’t have to separate the other two later.

“We now members of very exclusive club: the ‘dirty old riders seducing our young team mates foundation’.”

Dani stares at his friend. “I’m not sure Jorge counts,” he argues, “He’s only what, two years younger than me?” If he’s _old_ , he’s going to make damn sure Jorge gets put in the same group.

“Eight years from me,” Vale retorts. “Jorge counts, cradle robber.”

The age differences _do_ nearly match up, Dani realises. He blinks. “I did not rob the cradle with Marc.”

“Push chair, then?”

“He was legal. _Way_ over legal!”

“You protest so much, it must be true.” Vale smirks.

Dani mournfully takes another shot. “I am not having this argument this sober. If I’m drunk, you’ll know I’m not lying.”

“Sound like drunken logic already, Dani.”

“And I’m not lying, am I?” He tunes out the bickering right next to them and asks Vale the serious question. “How long have you known?”

“Jorge and I- has been eight months, since winter tests. We have argument, we solve argument differently to before. It works.” The Italian shrugs, well aware Dani didn’t really want to hear this. “So I know what looks like, two team mates being more, since then.”

“Huh.” Dani considers what Vale’s telling him. “So you didn’t pick up on us last year?”

Vale stares, this time. “Last season too? Marc is better at keeping secret than I thought. You, I am not surprised.”

This brings Dani round to another pertinent fact, if Vale’s in the mood for over-sharing. “I still can’t be a member of your club, Vale,” he smiles wryly. “There wasn’t much seduction from my half of the garage.”

Vale lets out a chuckle that’s pure mirth. “Should have guessed,” he says between breaths, and drinking.

Dani nods, taking another drink himself along with the joke. “You really should have.” He regards his empty glass warily. “What did you order, Vale?” It tastes strong on his tongue; he’s probably drunker than he thought already.

They spot the movement at the same time: Jorge getting to his feet, face livid. “Oh, _hell_ ,” Dani curses, and goes to rescue his little shit of a team mate, and lover. “What did you say?” He grabs Marc by the shoulders and shoves him back, out of Jorge’s reach.

“Nothing!” Marc protests his innocence, but he’s guilty by the laughter he can’t keep in.

“You two,” Jorge nods at him and Vale, “Weren’t exactly quiet. It gave _him_ ,” he nods more angrily at Marc, “The brilliant idea that us two should compare notes some time.”

Dani wraps that idea around his mind, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Have at him.” He waves a hand and steps away from his suddenly worried team mate.

“Dani?” Marc pokes him in the shoulder, mindful of Jorge’s smirk. “Dani, you aren’t going to let him kill me, right? Dani?!”

“He’s all yours, Jorge.”

“ _Dani!_ ”

“Never took you for sharing kind, _Dani_.”

The innuendo in that Italian accent stops the other three in their tracks.

“Too soon?” Vale nonchalantly drains the last shot glass on the bar. He bears up well under their incredulous gazes.

“ _Way_ too soon. Apocalypse- heralding soon,” Jorge moans, turning to order more. “Hell, just leave the bottle,” he tells the barman. “Actually, leave three.”

The barman complies, thinking firmly of the generous tip he’d better be getting for putting up with all of this in silence.

The silence lingers. Jorge takes a long slug straight from the first bottle. Dani joins him, hefting the second.

“I can’t believe you wondered how _I_ put up with _Marc_ ,” he bemoans, sotto-voce.

Jorge grimaced. “At times like this,” he rephrases from earlier, “Neither can I.”

_Sunday night, quarter to midnight, hotel bar._

If there was a chandelier, Dani thinks, Marc would be hanging off of it right about now. All four of them are thoroughly _trashed_.

There’s Marc, bouncing around like his glasses had contained pure sugar rather than high-percentage proof alcohol. There’s Vale, egging him on at every opportunity and starting most of the bickering contests the younger team mates keep getting into. There’s Jorge, sat at and leaning on the bar for support, hand still clenched around the bottle he claimed hours ago. Or had there been another bottle since then? It’s nearly empty, anyway. Dani’s lost any inkling of how much the four of them have racked up in bar costs.

And then there’s him. And this is the best sign of how drunk they all are, because Dani’s on his feet, propped up by his elbows on Jorge’s shoulders, and the Majorcan hasn’t even tried to shove him off. His chest has been practically plastered to Jorge’s back for going on an hour now, and neither one of them care about the physical closeness.

Vale’s talking to the barman again. He _can’t_ be ordering anything else, surely-

Marc’s nearer, and hears the words where Dani fails to.

“They’re closing!” He pouts. “How can they do that?”

Dani stumbles as his perch shifts beneath him. “Maybe they want to sleep?” Jorge slurs ever so slightly. “Sleep sounds pretty good, now.”

“But I’m not tired!” Marc protests immediately.

Jorge snorts, and checks over his shoulder to where Dani is fighting to regain his balance. “He’s all yours,” he says, eyes dancing with drunkenness and good humour.

They are all _so_ drunk, because Dani leers back. “Yes, he is,” he says proudly.

Vale’s back with them now, one last bottle in each hand. “For the road,” he grins at the three of them. “Let’s make this private party, yes?”

“That is the best idea I’ve heard so far this evening,” Marc decides. And well, who was Dani to refuse his friend’s teasing grin, or the happy glint in his lover’s eyes?

“How long is it to your room, again?” Jorge examines the bottles dubiously. They’re bar-sized, bigger than the standard supermarket product.

“Three floors,” Vale chirps. “Somebody else is closer, yes?”

Marc’s gaze turns to Dani. Dani swallows.

_Bugger_.

_Midnight, Room 109._

They end up in Dani’s room. Typical. He’s going to be the one having to clear up the mess they’ll undoubtedly make.

“Got a pack of cards?” Vale wonders, as he lounges on the room’s couch. The others sprawl on the floor with varying degrees of coordination. One bottle, full, is placed on the coffee table. The other is passed from person to person randomly, by order of who’s closest and who’s giving the others a ‘gimme’ gesture right then.

Dani shrugs; he doesn’t have a clue.

“We are _not_ playing strip poker.” Jorge says it like he’s laying down the law. He sniffs disdainfully. “Seen it all before, anyway.”

Marc’s eyes are wide as he stares at his lover. “You never told me that!”

Dani coughs, and hurriedly hands off the bottle to the chortling Italian. “You have never seen me naked,” he tells the Majorcan. If he was sober, he would be one hundred percent certain of this. Drunk, he’s scared to find himself _wondering_. Wait.

“Jorge’s seen _you_ naked?” His eyes are wider than Marc’s as he asks his team mate the question.

Marc frowns like this hadn’t occurred to him. “Oh yeah,” he turns his frown to the Majorcan. “You haven’t seen me naked, either!”

“Haven’t I?” Jorge waggles his eyebrows.

The Honda riders exchange worried looks.

“Strip go fish?” Vale tries.

Entirely derailed, Marc stares at the Italian. “How does that even work?”

“You get set, you take off clothing,” Vale explains patiently, with an undercurrent of _leer_.

Jorge tries to work that one out. “Not much incentive to win,” is his opinion.

“Is luck,” Vale winks. “Much fairer than poker.”

“Is not happening, regardless,” Jorge sticks to his guns.

“That’s what you said at testing,” Vale points out, “And look now.”

Jorge looks at the other three in the room. Vale’s got the highest vantage point, relaxed and open as he stares at Jorge with undeniable fondness. More fondness than they normally show each other, and Jorge looks away quickly with how uncomfortable that idea makes him. His eyes fall on the Honda riders. Marc has negotiated elbows and knees to curl into Dani’s side, the two of them murmuring things at each other. As Jorge watches, Dani presses a soft kiss to Marc’s temple. It’s a loving gesture, a telling one, but it’s not like Jorge hadn’t already worked out his former rival was in love with his team mate. Whether Marc knows is the question, and despite himself, he’s curious as to the answer. Has Dani told him? Or did Marc just know from the little actions, little pieces of himself Dani gave the younger man so freely?

“Cute,” he snorts at his own lover. “I must be drunk.”

Vale cocks his head. Jorge has no idea what the Italian is looking for in him. “Not drunk enough,” Vale concludes, passing over the second bottle.

“Drunk enough for what?” Jorge asks, even as he takes a drink. “What are you planning, Vale?”

The Italian shrugs, but he’s smirking. “There will be stripping.” It sounds scarily like a promise.

“Not for the next two months if you don’t answer my question properly,” Jorge replies, annoyed.

“Marc!” Vale calls to the youngest, most suggestible rider of the four. If he gets Marc, he gets Dani, and then he gets Jorge’s competitive nature. All in. “Where are the cards?”

“It’s my room,” Dani points out. “If I don’t know-”

But Marc’s on his feet, weaving over to the cabinet next to the mini fridge.

“Okay,” Dani concedes around the lump in his throat. “So it’s more like _our_ room.”

Marc throws down the boxed deck with a flourish. “Go fish?” He asks eagerly.

Vale nods, and raises the ante. “ _Strip_ go fish?”

Marc grins. “I’m in. Dani?”

Dani shuts his eyes immediately, but it doesn’t work. “I can feel the way you’re looking at me,” he grumbles. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“It’ll be fun!”

“I’m _terrible_ at go fish,” Dani tries.

“Then you’ll still be dressed at the end. Why worry?”

“What he means,” Jorge guesses, “Is luck, my arse; he’s actually very good at go fish, and as much as he’d like to kick _your_ arse in _something_ , Marquez, he’s a terribly insecure little man who doesn’t want to risk being ridiculed by me again.”

Unnoticed by the Honda riders, Jorge and Vale had had a furiously whispered conversation while they were whining at each other. It went something like this:

_There will be no stripping._

_There will be stripping._

_I’ll leave, then._

_Will bribery work?_

_…Depends what’s on offer._

_Mugello this year. Remember?_

_… I’m game. God help you if you back out._

_Why would I want to do that?_

_Why do you want to do this at all?_

_You only live once._

_… Sod it, I must be drunk. Alright._

Dani glares at the Majorcan. “I didn’t think you were up for this either,” he accuses the man he hoped would stand firm with him.

Jorge nods at his lover. “He makes a compelling argument.”

Marc starts laughing. Dani takes a moment to block the mental image from his mind. “Fine,” he grits out. “It’s on, Lorenzo.”

“Not for long, Pedrosa,” the Majorcan winks in reply.

-*-

This was a bloody terrible idea. Dani’s winning badly.

Vale has lost his shoes and socks. Marc has taken off his watch as well as the same (a cry of ‘cheat!’ was silenced by a truly stunning pair of wide, doleful, _would I_? eyes. Jorge might feel the slightest twinge of pity if this is what Dani has to put up with all the time.). Amidst further, ignored-rather-than-silenced protests of cheating, Jorge has only removed his scarf, the one he never goes anywhere without when they’re at the British GP. His call for _cheat_ mostly stemmed from the fact that Jorge put the scarf _back on_ for the game, after taking both it and his coat off earlier when they made it to the room.

Dani is down to his jeans. _Of all the things to win at._

“Feeling _lucky_ , Dani?” Jorge smirks at him.

“Got any sevens?” Dani prays for the negative answer.

Jorge sighs. “Go fish,” he says sadly.

Dani picks up a card. Thank God, it doesn’t match any of the others in his hand. “It’s almost like you _want_ to see me naked,” he muses, trying to dampen down the instinctual horror at the thought.

Jorge reaches out and flicks Marc on the ear. “He raised the point,” he says, eyes glinting. “We should compare notes, apparently.” He smirks at the other Yamaha rider. “Might be trading you in for a younger model, Vale.”

“No you bloody won’t be,” Dani shudders. He looks to Marc for support, but his lover is staring between the two of them with an indescribable expression on his face. “Marc?” Dani tries to get his attention. “Marc!”

Marc jumps, blushing furiously. Dani can only think of one reason why Marc would be blushing so hotly, and he feels his own cheeks grow warm.

Damn things are contagious.

“This, I need to know,” Jorge leans in closer. “What are you thinking, Marquez?”

“If you ever want to sleep with me again, say nothing,” Dani mutters.

“You have a suspicious mind, Dani,” Jorge wheedles. “Maybe he’s not thinking anything like what you think he’s thought of.”

They’re down to the last bottle, for the record. Even the complimentary minibar has been taken out. Miraculously, the sentence still makes sense.

“He is,” Dani mourns.

Marc looks like a deer in the headlights. Grinning widely, Vale gets him off the hook. “Our world champion was thinking about it,” he says gleefully.

“It?” Jorge asks for clarification.

Dani lunges, and fails spectacularly to get a hand over the Italian’s mouth and stop his next words.

“You and Dani.”

There’s a brief silence. Jorge shuts his eyes, and thrusts out a hand. “Give me the bottle,” he enunciates clearly.

Dani turns his head so fast the cartilage cracks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jorge glares at him. “What do you think?”

“You’re hardly my type either, for the record!”

“Too old?”

“Too aggravating!”

Jorge reopens his eyes, and glances at Marc. “And he isn’t?”

Dani feels his blush re-emerge. “It’s cute on him,” he snaps.

“Are you saying I’m not cute?”

“Why do you care if _I_ think you’re cute or not?”

The cards are entirely forgotten. Marc crawls over to Vale, and leans back against the couch next to him. “Aren’t you going to stop them?” He wonders.

Vale smiles crookedly. “All in the plan,” he says confidently.

“Plan?” Marc sits back upright. “There’s a plan?”

It could have been the alcohol, but Marc would swear to his dying day that Vale’s grin was suddenly _flirty_. “Aren’t you curious?”

Marc’s lost. “About what?”

Vale leans in so they’re cheek to cheek. “About if they’d look so good together as you think they will?”

Marc’s breath catches. Vale smirks knowingly. It takes a few attempts, but Marc rediscovers how to talk. “You’ve thought about it?” He speaks in a whisper.

“A couple years back, Jorge joked he and Dani could get married. With the past hatred, it made me think,” Vale breathes out the last words, “ _Interesting_ thoughts.”

They turn in unison to the men now shouting at each other, close enough in ire to breathe the same air.

“ _Very_ interesting thoughts,” Marc agrees, starting to grin.

-*-

“And for the record, Pedrosa? You’re too short, your hair is stupid and you’ve got a girly arse!”

“ _Why were you looking at my arse?_ ”

“It’s on my eye level!”

“You’re not that much taller than me! And my arse is _not_ girly _!_ ”

“ _Ten year old children_ are taller than you! And are you checking out your own arse, now?”

“I’m in love with a _man_ , you idiot! He wouldn’t be attracted to me if I had a _girly arse_!”

“Maybe you’re just a pity fuck until he finds something better!”

Silence falls, heavy enough to warrant its own gravitational field. It shatters when Dani takes a step back, then throws his body into a right hook to Jorge’s cheek.

“ _Shit!_ ” Vale leaps to his feet, Marc only seconds behind. “Not in plan!”

“What did you expect?” Marc yells as he winds both arms around Dani, restraining him.

“Angry, biting kisses, not punching!”

“Fuck’s sake!” Marc turns Dani around so they’re eye to eye, and makes sure the shorter man can see the honesty in his words. “I’m in love with you too, Dani. You _must_ know that; you aren’t a pity fuck. Never that.”

Dani sags in his hold, anger abruptly drained. “You could have anybody,” he whispers for Marc’s ears alone.

“And I choose _you_. So stop being a bloody idiot about it.”

Relief shines through in Dani’s eyes. “God, I love you,” he says, before spinning around, glaring at the Yamaha duo. “But I want a fucking apology _now_.”

Even Jorge knows he was in the wrong with the last comment, so although he cracks his jaw and glares straight back, he also mutters, “Sorry,” like it’s being tortured out of him.

“And another punch.”

Vale lays a calming hand on the Majorcan’s arm as it twitches. “Not _that_ sorry, Pedrosa. You’d have laughed that off if you were sober.”

“You wouldn’t have said it if you weren’t drunk, too.”

“Fuck, alright, yes. I’m sorry.” There’s actual contrition in the words this time, and Dani nods, satisfied.

There’s a glint in Vale’s eye, and Marc has a horrible feeling he knows what the Italian is going to say next.

“Kiss and make up?”

“Didn’t that start the argument in the first place?” Marc chips in before Dani or Jorge can explode again. “Probably not your best idea, Vale.”

Vale looks betrayed by the words. “You said you want to see as well!”

_“_ You _what?_ ”

“Fucking say what now?”

“ _Vale_!” Didn’t the Italian realise he’d be sleeping alone for _months_ after that little comment?

Jorge and Dani are still standing relatively close. They’ve been released by their respective lovers since apologies have been said and accepted. And Jorge feels like having some of his own fun, tonight, rather than being the butt of everyone else’s jokes.

So he takes in Dani’s expression, and schools his own. “So, you hate the idea,” he says neutrally.

Dani throws his hands up. “Call the reporters! We agree on something!”

“Not quite,” Jorge lets a hint of his devilish grin through. “You hating it makes it worth doing.”

“Doing wha-”

Jorge expects to be punched again (… okay, he’d deserve that one, too) but apparently the Honda rider is too stunned to do anything but stand there frozen as Jorge grabs him by the head and crushes their lips together. Jorge bites down on his lower lip, and _that_ gets a reaction.

It’s decidedly _not_ what he was expecting.

Dani _refuses_ to be mocked like this. He forgets the onlookers as he steps up into Jorge’s body and puts his hands on the taller man’s jaw, fighting for control. It’s a battle as intense as any they’ve fought on track; when the situation comes crashing down and he pulls back, they’re gasping for breath like they’ve both run a marathon in record time.

A string of saliva connects their lips before Jorge jerks his head away. “Fuck me,” he mutters, looking to the side. “He might have a girly arse, Marquez, but he’s not a bad kisser.”

Dani feels ice form in his veins as he realises fully what he has done. He’s just kissed another man in front of his boyfriend, not five minutes after professing to love him. His hands are still cupping Jorge’s cheek and jaw. He slowly turns his head, terrified of what he’s going to see there.

And he freezes.

Marc doesn’t look angry. Marc isn’t clenching his fists, getting ready to shout or storm out in fury.

Shivers course down Dani’s spine, because Marc looks _hungry._

Vale takes the youngest rider by the arm and drags him over to where their lovers are standing, still embracing like they can’t remember how to move their arms. “Your turn,” he says roughly. “Taste them together, Marc.”

Marc reaches out. Dani flinches slightly, like he’s going to be struck; he wouldn’t blame the younger man. But one hand tilts his chin up, and the other cards fingers through his hair, the touch so gentle it threatens to bring tears to his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Marc whispers. “Vale wasn’t lying; I’m not angry, Dani.” And he seals his lips over his lover’s, feeling them already swollen and slick with spit against his own. It’s a flight of fancy to imagine Dani _does_ taste any different, but Marc remembers who those lips were kissing mere moments ago, and feels heat rise in him.

Dani turns bodily into Marc as Jorge releases him, caught up in his own team mate. “If this was your plan all along,” Jorge mutters between nips and tugging on Vale’s earring with his teeth, “I don’t know whether to kill you-”

“Or bow down before me?” Vale gasps as Jorge bites harder for _that_ comment. “I know what you look like when you enjoy yourself, Jorge.”

“You fucking bastard.”

“You’re very annoyed,” Vale stretches out a questing hand and smugly confirms his suspicion. He squeezes, and Jorge jerks against him. “That why you’re hard already?”

Jorge curses again as Vale _pulls away_ and plasters himself against Marc’s back. He wraps his arms around the younger rider; Marc and Dani break their kiss and stare at him with dark eyes. Vale puts one hand on Dani’s waist; he’s still half-naked from their game. He strokes his thumb over the skin, looking past Dani to Jorge standing alone, helplessly torn between confused anger and lust. “We doing this?” He asks, _dares_ his team mate.

The Majorcan swallows once, twice, taking in the picture the three of them made. And it’s almost entirely the alcohol giving him the bravado to do this, to take those few steps and drape himself over Dani, mirroring his team mate. “Looks like.” He clears his throat and shakes off any lingering nerves. It’s not entirely bad; he _might_ not remember this in the morning.

Marc and Dani are back to looking at each other, having the kind of wordless conversation it can take some couples a decade to share. Marc smiles without breaking that eye contact. “All in,” he says softly. Dani dips his chin, nodding once.

Vale _loves_ to see a plan come together. “Then I say,” he trails his hand up Dani’s naked torso and under Marc’s until it’s cupping the shortest rider’s cheek. “My turn.” He steps aside so he isn’t craning around the other Honda rider, and becomes the third man to kiss Dani Pedrosa in twenty four hours.

Dani sighs into the kiss, pushes up into it. He nearly stumbles, but Jorge embraces him from behind, holds him steady against his chest and nuzzles into the crook of his neck, mouthing over the skin.

Marc isn’t normally one to be left out, but the sight has him riveted. Dani is always beautiful to Marc, especially when he loses himself in pleasure, so seeing him tag-teamed by the Yamaha riders is something he doesn’t mind just standing back and watching for the moment.

Then something hits him, and he works out how he can help things along, as it were. He slides a hand up Vale’s chest, clever fingers undoing each button as he goes. He does the same to Jorge with his other hand; it’s a feat of dexterity that make both of his new soon-to-be bed partners break off and stare at him, while Dani gives him a fond, if dazed, smile.

“Clever fingers,” Vale notes, a little breathless.

Dani lets out a low, nigh on sultry laugh. “You have _no_ idea.”

“ _Yet_.” Jorge punctuates the word with a bite to Dani’s shoulder. He’s fond of biting, Marc’s coming to notice.

Marc grins, and hopes it comes out as teasing. “We have Dani at a bit of a disadvantage.” He undoes the final button on Jorge’s shirt, and eases it over the Majorcan’s shoulders, figuring that between him and the Italian, he needed more encouragement.

Jorge traps the helping hand against his skin, and tugs the youngest man closer. “Since when,” he breathes against Marc’s lips, “Have _you_ been interested in fair play?”

Marc doesn’t dignify that with an answer; instead he takes the kiss so clearly on offer. Even though he _knows_ he shouldn’t, he can’t help but- compare.

He and Dani have been dating for just over a year. Their kisses can mean so many things: _hello, congratulations, missed you, I’m sorry, I want you, I_ love _you_ \- but the one thing they all have in common is a passion that has only grown stronger since their first, and Marc hopes every next time that it will never fade away.

Jorge kisses like it’s a two-man competition he refuses to lose. There _is_ passion: it burns under his skin and translates over with every caress of his lips, every shallow bite he gives Marc’s own.

Marc breaks away with a gasp, and doesn’t even catch his breath before turning to complete his comparison.

Vale winks as he leans in, and Marc wonders if the Italian doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. Vale’s kisses are like a drug compared to Jorge’s scorching and Dani’s loving. It’s _intoxicating_ , and Marc feels like he’s dragging his mind up through molasses as he pulls back.

He doesn’t try to hide how unsteady his tone is, how _fucking turned on_ all of this is making him. “Shirts off,” he says breathlessly, nodding at the appropriate corner of the room, “then bed, _now_.”

Jorge chuckles, and pulls Dani back against him, speaking right into his ear. “You’re right; it _is_ cute on him; the arrogant assumption that he’s in charge.”

Marc raises an eyebrow, hoping he doesn’t look as desperate as he feels. “You have a better idea?”

Jorge’s pupils are already dilated; now they look _black_. His mouth goes dry at the look his youngest rival is giving him. “Lead on,” he says hoarsely.

With some stripping, posturing and careful placement, they all make it to the bed. But incredibly, they’re just sitting there, glancing at each other, and Marc mournfully wonders if they aren’t just going to _literally_ sleep together after all.

“What do we want?” He asks the question, voice trembling, fire burning under his skin. But actually on the bed, everything is so tentative, so suddenly _real_. It seems nobody is brave enough to be the first to reach out.

Finally, Vale comes to their rescue. He leans over on his side and puts a hand on Marc’s thigh.

“I have this plan…”

_Monday morning, two minutes past eight, room 109._

Dani’s headache is kicking in with steel toecap boots, so he’s forcibly easing up on the panic. He takes a leaf from Vale’s book and sits back against the pillows, breathing deeply and calmly to return his pulse to something normal.

“If any of you _ever_ breathe a word of this,” Jorge hisses, “I will fucking end you.”

“Four-way blackmail,” Vale winks, “Mutually assured destruction.”

“Four-way _fun_ ,” Marc corrects the Italian. Of _course_ that would be Marc’s response, but it’s still Dani he’s cuddling up to, so the other Repsol rider isn’t too threatened.

“And it’s _never_ happening again,” he says anyway, firmly. Marc turns beseeching eyes on him, and he feels his resolve waver. “Unless we get blackout drunk,” he feebly adds, feeling like he’s just lost every scrap of ground he tried to take.

He’s wrapped around Marc’s little finger as much as any other body part the younger man cared to name.

“I am never drinking again,” Jorge announces. Then he winces, cradling his head. “Except maybe to ease off this hangover.”

“Anything left in the minibar?” Vale wonders, unaffected by his team mate’s frown.

Dani cranes his neck, surveying the damage. “Water?” He ventures the guess from the empty bottles on his floor.

“Right.” Vale hops to his feet, uncaring of his nakedness. “My room, then?”

“Why aren’t you suffering like the rest of us?” Marc asks curiously. He’s curled into Dani, hoping body heat would offset the aches and minor pains coursing through his body.

Vale, the infuriating bastard, taps the side of his nose. “I had plan,” he reminds them. “How was I meant to work it if I get as drunk as the rest of you?”

Marc’s unable to help snorting. “You worked it pretty damn well, from what I can remember.” He scrunches up his nose. “Which isn’t much,” he admits.

“That’s probably for the best,” Jorge mutters darkly.

Vale reaches out and cuffs him, no sympathy for his headache. “I always say I’m going to blow your mind one day.”

And as in the bar last night (he _did_ remember all of that, at least) Dani has to pipe up here. “I recall it wasn’t his _mind_ you were blowing.”

Vale _creases_ up. Marc feels incredibly lucky as he smirks up at his boyfriend, who he knows wouldn’t even be in this situation were it not for love of him.

Jorge looks flabbergastedly _horrified_ , like he cannot believe the words that have just come out of Dani’s mouth.

And Dani? Dani gently eases Marc away, stretches out to awaken the muscles in his legs, and very calmly calls dibs on the first shower.


End file.
